Meanwhile, Anne was the innocent cause of trouble between Pat and his
father. Mr. Patterson came back in the early summer to spend a few weeks
with his son at the old home in Georgetown before midsummer heat drove
them to mountains or seashore.
The mansion was a roomy, old-fashioned house which his grandfather
Patterson had built when Georgetown was a fashionable suburb of the
capital. As Washington grew, fashion favored other sections, and the
stately homes of Georgetown were stranded among small shops and dingy
tenements. Some old residents, the Pattersons among the number, clung to
their homes.
Mr. Patterson had been little at home since his wife's death. Every
nook and corner of the house, her pictures on the walls, her books on
the shelves, her easy-chair beside the window, called her to mind. How
lonely and sad he was! His son was little comfort to him in his
loneliness. Except on their ocean voyage, Pat and his father had not
been together for three years and they had grown apart. Pat was no
longer just a merry little chap, ready for a romp with his father. He
was a tall, overgrown lad, absorbed in the sports and work of his
school-world, at a loss what to say to the silent, reserved business man
who made such an effort to talk to him.
One day, as they sat together at a rather silent dinner, a sudden
thought made Pat drop his salad fork and look up at his father. "When is
Anne coming, father?" he asked. "Where's her school? and when is it
out?"
"Anne? Anne who?" asked Mr. Patterson, blankly--for the moment
forgetful of the child who had been a brief episode in his busy life.
"Why, Anne Lewis, of course--our little Anne," said Pat.
"Oh, that child," answered Mr. Patterson, carelessly. "She is in an
orphan asylum in Virginia. I put her there the week we landed."
Pat started to his feet. "In an orphan asylum?" he gasped. He knew
asylums only through the experiences of Oliver Twist, and if his father
had said "in jail," the words would not have excited more horror.
"Of course," replied his father, viewing his emotion with surprise.
"That was where she belonged. We couldn't find any of her own people.
Why, son! You didn't expect me to keep her, did you?"
"Mother intended that. She said Anne was my--little--sister." The boy
found it difficult to speak.
"Your mother! If she had lived--but without her--be reasonable, Pat.
How could you and I--we rolling stones--take charge of a little girl?
And now--"
"There is Aunt Sarah," interrupted Pat, refusing to be convinced. "Or
school. I thought you had her in boarding-school like me. Where is she?"
Mr. Patterson was just going to tell Pat about Anne and her whereabouts.
But now he was provoked that his son put the question, not as a request,
but as a demand. He spoke sternly. "You forget yourself, Patrick. It is
not your place to take me to task for pursuing the course that I thought
proper in this matter. We will drop the subject, if you please."
"But, father, Anne--"
"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson interrupted. "Either sit down and finish your
dinner quietly or go to your room."
Pat turned on his heel and went up-stairs, but not to his chamber.
Instead, he made his way to a little attic room with a dormer window.
There was a couch which his mother had covered with chintz patterned in
morning-glories, his birth-month flowers. The book-shelves and the chest
for toys were covered with the same design, applied by her dear hands.
How many a rainy Sunday afternoon his mother and he had spent in this
den, reading and talking together! In the months since his mother's
death, he had never missed her as he did now--in these first days at
home. There was no one to take away the loneliness. Aunt Sarah was with
Cousin Hugh. And now Anne was away--not just for a time but for always.
There was no one left but his father, who seemed like a stranger and
whom--he said it over and over to himself--he did not love.
The boy threw himself face downward on his couch and sobbed as he had
not done since the first days after his mother's death. Where was Anne?
Was she with people who were good to her? If only he had written to her
long ago! Father would have sent the letter, or given the address. He
had begun a letter telling about a big baseball game but he had blotted
it; it was in his portfolio still, unfinished. Poor little Anne! The
tears came afresh. He could see his mother stroking Anne's fair hair, as
she had done one day when he was teasing about Honey-Sweet.
"My son," the gentle voice had said, "you must be good to our little
girl. Remember, she has no one in the world but us."
Dear little Anne! What a jolly playmate she was,--brave, good-tempered,
affectionate! and what a generous little soul! How she always insisted
on dividing her fruit and candies with him when he devoured his share
first.
An hour passed. Mr. Patterson came up-stairs, went from his room into
Pat's, and then walked down the hall.
"Pat!" he called. "Patrick!" The voice sounded stern but really its
undertone was anxiety.
Pat did not speak. He scrambled to his feet and descended the stairs.
With set mouth and downcast eyes, he stood before his father.
"Did I not tell you to go to your room, Pat?"
"Yes, father." Pat paused in the doorway. "I want to know where Anne
is," he said.
"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson spoke sternly now. "You forget yourself
strangely to address me in this way. I refuse to answer."
He turned on his heel and left his son. And he left a breach between
them which the days and weeks widened instead of closing. Pat, feeling
that it would be useless to question his father any more, did not
mention Anne's name again. He picked up his old comrades and went
walking, swimming, and canoeing, keeping as much away from his father as
possible. Mr. Patterson busied himself with office affairs, looking
forward with relief to the end of the so-longed-for vacation. In a few
days, Miss Drayton would join them to take Pat with her to the
Adirondacks.
At this very time, Miss Drayton, too, was bearing about a disturbed
heart. She was fond of Anne and had always regretted her being sent to
an orphanage, but the feeling was not strong enough to make her reclaim
the child. Anne's uncle was a criminal, after all, and she herself had a
strange secret. How could she have acquired those jewels but by theft?
Miss Drayton shrank from the responsibility of such a child. Perhaps the
strict oversight of an asylum was best for her.
This course of thought was abruptly changed by the receipt of a letter
forwarded from Washington to the Maryland village where Miss Drayton was
visiting. It was a many-postmarked much-travelled letter, that had
journeyed far and long before it reached her. Mailed in Liverpool, it
was sent to Nantes, in care of the American consul. It had been held,
under the supposition that the lady to whom it was addressed might come
to the city and ask for mail sent there for safe keeping. Finally, the
unclaimed letter was sent to the American embassy at Paris. There it
tarried awhile. Then it fell into the hands of a secretary who knew Miss
Drayton, and he sent the letter to the Washington post-office,
requesting that her street and number be supplied.
This was done, and the ten-months-old letter reached Miss Drayton one
July afternoon. She glanced curiously from the unfamiliar handwriting to
the signature. Carey G. Mayo. Anne's uncle!
With changing countenance, she read the letter hastily.
Then she reread it once and again.
"Liverpool, England,
"20 September, 1910.
"Miss Sarah Drayton,
"Dear Madam,--I write to you on the eve of leaving the city, to
commend my niece to your care. You have been so good to the child that I
venture to hope you will care for her till I can relieve you of the
burden. She has no near relative and I am in no position to hunt up the
cousins who might take charge of her.
"I told Anne not to tell you about seeing me till you reached Nantes,
for by that time, if ever, I shall be beyond the reach of officers of
the law. Please keep her mother's rings that I gave to her, unless it
becomes necessary to dispose of them to provide for her. If I live, I
will replace her money that I squandered.
"Will you leave your address for me with the consul in Nantes? For God's
sake, madam, do not betray me to the hands of the law. I am a guilty
man, but I am putting myself in your power for the sake of this
innocent child. Be very good to her, I implore you. Deal with her as you
would be dealt with in your hour of need.
"Respectfully yours,
"Carey G. Mayo."
This was the secret then, this the mystery. How she had misjudged poor
little Anne! She would hasten to take the child from the asylum and
would do all possible to make up for the lonely, neglected past. She
wrote at once to the consul at Nantes, asking him to forward to her
Washington address any letters which came for her. Then she hastened her
departure to Washington.
"I came before the time I set," she said to her brother-in-law as soon
as they were alone together, "because I wish to talk to you about Anne
Lewis." Mr. Patterson's brow clouded. "She is in an orphan asylum in
Virginia, is she not? We must get her out. At once. Read this letter."
Mr. Patterson held the letter unopened in his hand. "The subject is an
unpleasant one," he said. "I've been wanting to tell you about a
conversation I had with Pat. It showed me in a startling way how the boy
is developing. I don't know what to do with him. In my young days, boys
were different. We submitted to our fathers. A year or two of school and
camp life has changed my little Pat into a sullen, self-willed,
unmanageable youngster." He repeated the conversation between Pat and
himself about Anne.
"And you did not tell him where Anne is?" asked Miss Drayton.
"Certainly not," replied Mr. Patterson. "His manner was disrespectful.
If he had asked properly, I should have answered him. Of course I had no
objection to telling him."
"Ah," murmured Miss Drayton. "I hope he didn't think you meant to keep
him ignorant of Anne's whereabouts."
"Of course not," said Mr. Patterson, indignantly.
"Children get queer little notions in their queer little heads
sometimes," said Miss Drayton. "I confess, brother, I think you've done
wrong. And I've done wrong. We could have given this orphan child a home
and care--and we did not."
Her brother-in-law replied that orphan asylums were established to
relieve such cases.
Miss Drayton did not argue the question. She said softly: "We failed in
the trust that Emily left us--our duty to her little adopted daughter."
Mr. Patterson was silent. He opened and read Mr. Mayo's letter. Then he
folded it carefully and handed it back. "I will go to-morrow and get
this child from the asylum," he said.
"Suppose you let me go--with Pat," suggested Miss Drayton. "And,
brother, talk to him. Explain matters."
But he shook his head. "There is nothing for me to explain. You and I
misunderstood things. I am sorry we did not know all this at first. Then
we would have acted differently. But it is not for Pat to judge my
course. I refuse to defend myself to a young cub."